


Suit and tie, baby boy.

by was_adamant



Series: Second Verse [1]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Explicit Language, M/M, Mindfuck, Science Fiction, god dang i love sci-fi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 22:22:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3305516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/was_adamant/pseuds/was_adamant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're wearing his tie, his cufflinks, his aftershave.</p><p class="p1">The glasses. A suit he had tailored for you. You even talk like him, sometimes.<span class="s1"><br/></span>Its kinda <em>weird</em>, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suit and tie, baby boy.

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Suit And Tie,Baby Boy 着我之衣，我的男孩](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3930541) by [Glacier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glacier/pseuds/Glacier)



You're wearing his tie, his cufflinks, his aftershave.

The glasses. A suit he had tailored for you. You even talk like him, sometimes.  
Its kinda _weird_ , right?

Before, when you didn't fucking know yet how badly everything was gonna fuck up for him, you thought he was _invincible_.

Superhuman. A fucking british dandy Batman. He was so good. _Looked_ so good. There wasn't a single part of him that didn't drip style. Bespoke confidence. 

It wasn't till later, before you fell asleep on that first night you met him and your world changed, that you wondered on whether you wanted to be him or to _fuck him_.

Here, now, a few years after it all you're still not sure.

The thing… the thing is, there were any number of ways you could've killed Valentine, definitely ones that would've been _cleaner_ than spearing him through with the leg of his dead girlfriend or assistant or _whatever_. But you wanted to see him hurl, see him suffer a bit with a vicious pettiness you couldn't stop. Wouldn't control. So yeah, you let the fucker live long enough to see you smile down with teeth and all the choked up hate you had so that at least he would _know_. (The tosser still got the last word in though, _fucking shite_.)

The thing is that Valentine _stole from you._

The previous Galahad was _yours._ He was _yours_ the moment he stepped in, invested himself in _you_ , fucking vouched for, cared for, mentored _you_. He was fucking _yours, forever and ever, A-fucking-men._  

No one, not even your Mum (god bless her she does try) was really ever _yours._ Like - like they were your whole world, even if you don't, didn't show it. You grew up on the shite part of a shite suburb crammed in next to other, slightly less shite suburbs; you know the score, known it since you were a tiny little fucker with a runny nose looking at some older dickheads punching up some poor sod who got caught with his pants down, literally. They'd seen you, all scrawny and weak kneed by the fence, asked _what the fuck you lookin' at, mate_ and you'd turned tail and fucking legged it. You know how it goes. How things still are, even if people seem okay for the most part. 

You fuck girls, and you like it fine. And you fuck guys, less often, in the darkness of an anonymous club where no one asks anything much, and you like it a bit less but thats also still _fine._

So you didn't show it, not when he first put a hand on you, not when his voice appeared, _like a god,_ to save you from Dean. Not even when he got shot, not really. You cried a little, sure, when the whole screen lit up with blood and brain matter cause his glasses got fucked along with his head. But you still - you didn't - didn't _show it all_ , not even close. You took a swig of something and you got up and you fucking got whatever shit that needed doing done. You are a spectacular fucking agent. He choose well by choosing you, and you're bloody well going to prove it - to you, to Merlin, to the entire organization if you have to.

So you dress like him, a bit. Because that makes _sense_ , he was your mentor. You say things, do things, that he did. Because - because that makes sense too. It does.

The fact that sometimes, at the corner of you eye, in a mirror, in a glass, you -

You see him, in that suit, in that tie, in those cufflinks. It makes things okay for a bit. Like he's still there. Looking after you. Looking good.

Its okay. A little weird, maybe. But okay. Was.  
Was okay.

Its… a bit weirder now, because you've started to _see him all the time_. There, at corner of your eye.

You'd be on a mission, another one from the New-Merlin (Old Merlin is technically Arthur now, but you call him Merlin still and he never objects) and you'd see him suddenly, fast, too fast for you to track  _bloody fucking hell_. Flash of a tie, scent of a man's cologne. You can't be sure if its _yours,_ or _his,_ and its driving you nuts, you're going crazy, is crazy - probably. Dodge a bullet, run hard left right right turn, hit some goon's neck reach down for the keycard and _there, left side,_ someone that looks like you, looks more like _him_ but you aren't sure, can't be sure, he's _fucking dead._ Its 2020 now and He. Is. Dead.

It affecting your work, its affecting _you_ and your colleagues are worried, shit even Roxy's noticed despite being neck deep in some weapons distributions conflict in Europe. New model 'Duplare' machines. Real quiet, real secret, yet another mad rich bloke with too much brain and time making some crazy shit to fuck the world up. Jesus Mary _Christ_. You aren't even sure what it is this time, hope to god its not something like _mass mind control god, your_ life _holy shite_.

It isn't though, until you go on some milk run picking up some foreign diplomat's illegal papers (easy job, Merlin's worried) that you see _two of him_ , that you know for sure somethings _wrong._

There's him, you, in the mirror by the vase, Hilton five star room. You'd put on dark navy silk stripe tie this morning because you felt a bit nostalgic. You remember when he would fuss with this tie, fingers absentmindedly tugging it down, laying it flat while he talked to you about how you were worth something, how he _-_

But, on the other side, reflected in the double windows. Another him. The double doesn't properly register for a bit. You're crazy after all and you've been _ignoring_ this. But then he moves and you _aren't_ and _jesus, jesus what the_ fuck.

So yeah, things are weird. Its been a few minutes since then, you're holed up in the bathroom doing your best not to fucking shake apart and Merlin's voice in you ear is a frantic white static. You keep trying to replay what went on, what happened in that hallway but your head's a fucking mess and it keeps skipping like a scratched disk and you can't even focus on the words coming out from the earpiece and you're obviously _losing your mind_ and you'll probably be sacked and and - 

You black out.

You wake, you're in a bed, there's soft, dark sheets. Another room in the hotel. When you pick up the earpiece and glasses set conveniently placed by the bedside (you aren't gonna think how it got there _you're not)_ you can hear Merlin still frantic and near yelling, so you cut him off, try your best to explain, _I don't know if you saw what I saw -_ but yes. Yes he did. 

He did see.

You find yourself repressing a shiver. Your black tie is by your suit on the chair (static keeps happening). You put clothes back on, because you're gonna power through this, get to the fucking bottom of whatever the hell is going on. You walk out to meet back at HQ, _thanks but no, Merlin, I can make my way fine._ And when you walk down the street you avoid to urge to look for reflections of him again because…

Because. Its weird, now. Its weird.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yoooooo ok so this may be a series, I don't know, I don't know QAQ


End file.
